“Except that the Crucible could be programmed to re-create it.”
“It’s a theory. Fred also thought they might want the Crucible for some kind of military use: creating false heat signatures or radar images to confuse smart bombs, that kind of thing. You know how eager the government has been to get their hands on our patents.”
“Did Fred tell you how difficult it would be to pull this off?”
“It isn’t the coding so much as the processing power. Reproducing small holograms is relatively trivial. But for the kind of stuff Fred’s talking about, you’d need access to supercomputers. Lots of them. You’d need the resources of a medium-size power.”
“Or a terrorist state.”
As Emory fell silent, Sarah could almost hear the man’s mind working its way through the options. He was a money guy; he’d be putting it in financial terms. So much for the loss of the technology, so much for the collateral damage the loss might cause, so much for the death of a dozen, two dozen guests. When you thought about it, it really wasn’t that complex an equation, at all.
“This contact of theirs,” Emory said. “What kind of assurances did he give you if we hand over the source code?”
“No assurances. He just said that, if we did what he asked, nobody would die. They’d leave. The Park would be ours again.”
There was a long inhalation of breath, another squeak of the chair. “I’d like your thoughts on this, Sarah. You’re on-site, you’ve talked to their spokesman. Is this on the level?”
So Emory was asking her opinion. Sarah did not know if this was a good sign or a bad one. “He’s brazen. He’s arrogant. He sat there in my office, grinning like Brer Rabbit.” At the memory, she felt hot anger swell once again. “He’s well funded: at least, so far as we’ve seen. And that’s just the problem Bob Allocco and I have been discussing.”
“Go on.”
“Our first reaction was knee-jerk: he’s dangerous, give him what he wants. But then we started to think. Whathave we seen? A gun, a stick of explosive, a few radios. Maybe they’re real, maybe they’re expensive fakes. What wehaven’t seen is the manpower. We know he must have someone on the inside; there’s no other way he could have manipulated the bots and the video feed. But that could still just mean a two-person show. For all we know, we’ve already seen everything he’s got. And he’s bluffing the rest.”
“Or else he’s deadly serious.”
“Correct. But the Crucible is the crown jewel of this Park. What if it’s just two men, with an elaborate scam? We can’t just give it away without a fight.”
There was a pause. “If there’s a fight, guests will be the casualties.”
“And that can’t be allowed to happen. But even Brer Rabbit eventually met the Tar-Baby. Allocco’s developed a plan to intercept John Doe at the drop point.”
“That’s a very dangerous game, Sarah. If things go wrong—”
“Bob will play it safe. He’ll have John Doe tailed, take him down as he leaves the Park. Recover the disc with the Crucible technology. If it turns out John Doe’s on the level—there is a team, and they are heavily armed—we back off immediately, notify the police to intercept. Butonly once they’re outside, away from the Park.”
There was another pause.
“There are only two other options,” Sarah spoke into the silence. “Call John Doe’s bluff, refuse to give him the disc at all. Or give him the disc and just let him walk away. With our most crucial technology in his pocket.”
There was a sigh. “And you can trust Allocco to do this? You get my drift?”
Sarah got his drift. Of all Utopia staff, only she and Emory knew that Bob Allocco had left the Boston police force ten years before because of money troubles, a result of compulsive gambling.
“This operation will be my call, and my responsibility. But, yes, I trust Allocco. What happened, happened a long time ago. Besides, at this point, I think we have no choice.”
This time the silence was so long, Sarah wondered if the line had gone dead.
“We’ve only got twenty-six minutes,” she said at last. “I’ll need your digital key if we’re going to create that disc.”
Still nothing.
“Mr. Emory? I need a decision.”
Finally, the CEO of Utopia replied. “Give it to them,” he said. “But let Allocco place his tar-baby. And, for God’s sake, be careful.”
1:50P.M.
AT THE ICEcream counter in the Big Dipper restaurant, a cast member in a copper-colored flight suit was mixing a chocolate banana malt. It was more crowded now, in the early afternoon, and a horde of hungry, disappointed onlookers were standing on the concourse, staring perplexedly at the counter, wondering what could have happened to the robot they had come to see. Overhead, the bulk of Jupiter filled the empty darkness of space, the great red spot coming into view, roiling and turning, bright as an angry boil. Callisto’s speaker system, hidden within air ducts and hollow walls, pumped its own blend of low-frequency noise: ambient electronic music, drowned by the chatter of adults and the delighted cries of children.
At a large circular portal a hundred yards down the concourse from the ice cream counter, these cries were particularly strong. This was the entrance—“access port,” as the loading crews were reminded to call it—to Galactic Voyage. It was a newer attraction, devised by Utopia’s design team after Nightingale’s death. Most of Callisto’s rides were much too intense for younger children. Galactic Voyage was the result. It was a standard amusement park “dark ride,” in which small cars ran along an electrified bus bar past a series of moving images: asteroid belts, horse-head nebulas, supernovas.
Infants loved Galactic Voyage. Anybody older than five, however, found the attraction paralyzingly dull and gave it a wide berth. With young children and numbed parents as its only passengers, Galactic Voyage boasted the lowest rate of security incidents in the entire Park. As a result, there were no lookouts or cameras, no infrared intrusion beams. And since the ride practically ran itself, there was very little for the operators to do. This made Galactic Voyage almost as unpopular with Utopia cast members as it was with adult guests.
Just about the only employees who enjoyed working the ride, in fact, were the romantically inclined. Like all mainline rides, Galactic Voyage had a large, labyrinthine backstage area for service and maintenance. One particularly remote spot was Fabrication, where the dark meshing and black velour that served as backdrops were sized and repaired. Operators had found this an ideal place to bring amorous fellow employees, or impromptu dates plucked from among the visitors. Fabrication became so popular a trysting spot that its large cutting table was dubbed the “groaning board.” When management learned of this, strategic shifts in personnel were made. Now, Galactic Voyage workers were mostly women in their fifties and sixties. The ride had the oldest employee demographics in Utopia, and its fabrication area was now used only—and infrequently—for its designed task.
Except that, at present, John Doe sat on the edge of the cutting table. His legs, crossed at the ankles, swung casually above the floor. It was dark, and the whites of his eyes glowed dimly with the subdued phosphorescence of outer space. Like Sarah Boatwright in her office far below, he was speaking into a telephone.
“That’s very interesting,” he said. “You did the right thing to inform me. I’ll be expecting the particulars from you soon.” He listened briefly. Something must have struck him as funny, because suddenly he burst into good-humored laughter—although he was polite enough to put a hand over the mouthpiece as he did so. “No,” he said as echoes of the laugh died away. “No, no, no. I don’t think it’s cause for concern, let alone cancellation. My dear fellow, that would beunthinkable.” A pause. “I’m sorry? Yes, that was unfortunate, I agree. But we’re talking lasers and high explosives, not brain surgery, you know. They’re a little hard to predict.”
He listened again, longer this time. “We’ve had this conversation before,” he said at length. “As recently as las
t week, I believe.” His voice was calm, informal: a man of breeding, speaking to a respected equal. “Let me repeat what I said then. There is nothing to worry about. The time we spent in planning, in removing bugs and ironing out the kinks, was well spent. Every possible outcome has been analyzed, every contingency planned for. You know that as well as I. One must keep up one’s nerve. ‘Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.’ ”
John Doe repeated the quotation for the listener’s benefit. He chuckled. And then the tone of his voice abruptly changed. It grew cold, remote, condescending. “You’ll remember what else I said, no doubt. It was unpleasant, and I’d hate to repeat it. We have passed the point of no return. We’re committed. There has been too much accomplishedalready for you to waver now. Remember that a word in the right ear would be all it takes to expose you, arrest you, lock you up the rest of your life with inmates in need of—well—diverting companionship. Not that things would ever get so far, of course. My own companions would find much more rapid and permanent ways of expressing their dissatisfaction with you.”
As quickly as it had come, the ominous tone disappeared. “But that won’t happen, of course. All your hard work is already done. In fact, your assignment now is tonot do something. Isn’t that a delightful irony?”
He switched off the cell phone, let it drop to the table beside him. Then, reaching into a pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out a radio, punched in a code, selected a frequency. “Hard Case, this is Prime Factor,” he said. The cultured accent he had employed for the prior call was now gone. “Message delivered at 1:45. Pickup at 2:15, as scheduled. However, I’ve just learned of a slight problem. There’s a fellow in the Park today, one Andrew Warne. It appears he built the Utopia Metanet, and they’ve brought him back to fix it. Wasn’t scheduled to arrive until next week, but he’s here early. No, I don’t know why. But we can’t have him rooting around, turning over rocks with his snout and uncovering bugs. Snow White is getting me a description and most recent location—I’ll pass them on. You do what’s necessary to remove the threat. I’ll leave the creative details to you. Out.”
Mr. Doe lowered the radio, gazing around the secluded room. In the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of childish laughter as a car made its way through the ride. After a moment, he glanced down at the radio, switched frequencies, and raised it to his lips once again.
“Water Buffalo, this is Prime Factor. You copy?”
There was a squawk, a brief crackle of static. “Affirmative.”
“How’s the weather up there?”
“Sunny. Zero percent chance of precipitation.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, we’re in business. You may lay the eggs when ready.”
“That’s a rog. Water Buffalo, out.”
The radio fell silent. Mr. Doe slid it back into the pocket of his linen jacket, then crossed his arms and leaned back upon the groaning board, swinging his legs with a sigh of contentment.
1:52P.M.
THE MAN ONthe escarpment let the radio drop slowly from his ear. This time, instead of returning it to his belt, he placed it inside his duffel, next to a thick, battered paperback. For a moment, he let his eye linger on the book: volume one of Proust’sRemembrance of Things Past. Then on impulse he picked it up, fanning through the dirty pages to the dog-ear he’d made moments before.
Water Buffalo was not, by nature, a reader. During his youth, there had always been too much trouble that needed getting into, too little time for books. Once, in reform school, a priest had given a sermon. He’d told the boys that books were the doorways to new worlds. Water Buffalo had paid no attention. But later, as a marine scout sniper—waiting endlessly in tiny hidden blinds where there was nothing but time—he’d found himself going back to that sermon, wondering about those worlds.
One thing about civilian work: you could read on the job.
He’d decided that, if he was going to read a book, it had better be a long one. He didn’t understand why somebody would go to all the time and effort of reading something, just to have it end after a couple of hundred pages. You’d have to start all over again with another one. There’d be the trouble of learning new names, figuring out a new story. It was highly inefficient. It didn’t make sense.
So, after some recon in a Denver bookstore, he’d settled on Proust. At 3,365 pages,Remembrance of Things Past was certainly long enough.
The cry of some desert bird roused him, and he returned the book to the duffel, pulling out a Bausch & Lomb spotting scope and the M24 sniper rifle instead. He turned in his shallow gully, swiveling the scope in the direction of the huge dome of Utopia. He ranged across the countless polygons of glass until at last he found the maintenance specialist. The man had recently crossed over into the fat, crescent-shaped wedge of blackness that formed the ceiling over Callisto.
Water Buffalo grunted. That was good. Very good.
He put the spotting scope down and picked up the rifle, screwing the silencer into place, then fitting his eye to the telescopic sight and aiming toward the dome. The scope was a Leupold M3 Ultra, with range-finding reticle and a built-in compensator for bullet drop. He’d been careful to keep the sight against his canteen inside the duffel, and the metal felt cool and familiar against the orbit of his skull.
He scanned the dome slowly. John Doe once told him that, in World War II, Japanese snipers had been known to climb palm trees with steel hooks, tie themselves to the trunks, and stay up there for days at a time, waiting for a target. Water Buffalo could understand that. There was something about scope work that was almost comforting. You couldn’t really explain it to anyone who hadn’t done some themselves. All of a sudden, the world shrank to just that little circle at the end of a tunnel. If you’d done your setup right, you could forget about everything else. All you had to worry about was that little circle. It simplified things enormously.
He thought back to John Doe, how the man had recruited him in a Bangkok joss house. When it came to team leaders, Water Buffalo was extremely picky. But John Doe’s credentials had been impeccable. And his leadership and tactical skills had been proven to Water Buffalo’s satisfaction time and again since, over the course of half a dozen successful ops. For a civilian, he had a rare understanding of the kind of anonymity a solo operator like Water Buffalo preferred.
But then, John Doe had not always been a civilian.
He shifted the rifle slightly and the specialist jumped back into view, ten times normal size. He was about a third of the way up the curve of the dome, making his way cautiously along the narrow horizontal catwalk, lifting his rubber-soled feet and placing them down again precisely, like a cat. A palm-sized data entry pad dangled from his belt. Water Buffalo watched as he reached a vertex of windowpanes. Carefully, the man unhooked a tether, clipped it to a rail on the far side of the vertex, and stepped around. He moved forward again, paused, then reached for his data pad and tapped in an entry: perhaps he’d found a cracked pane. Then he moved on. Water Buffalo watched him through the scope.
At the next vertex, a metal ladder intersected the catwalk, running vertically up and down the curved surface of the dome. The man hooked his tether to the ladder and began climbing downward, hand over hand, between the dark panes of glass. There was something about the worker that reminded Water Buffalo of Proust. Maybe it was the white jumpsuit he was wearing. Somewhere in the book’s introduction, it had said Proust liked to dress in white.
He’d reached a point in volume one where Proust was describing an elderly aunt. The woman’s sphere of life had gradually contracted until she kept herself confined to just two rooms of her apartment. That, too, Water Buffalo could understand. He’d had a grandmother who’d been like that. Of course, her shabby tenement onlyhad two rooms. But when she grew older, she’d never left them. It was as if the world beyond her door had been a different universe, something to be feared and avoided. If people wanted to see how she was—to check on her hea
lth, give her soup—they had to come to her.
Proust talked of visiting his aunt, making her lime-blossom tea. Water Buffalo had visited his own grandmother, once or twice. Then he’d stopped visiting for good. He wondered what lime-blossom tea tasted like.
When he’d first started reading the book, it hadn’t made any sense to him. From what he could make out, it was just some Frenchman blabbing about his childhood. Who gave a shit how long it took the guy to fall asleep? But then Water Buffalo had found himself on an op—a very long and tedious op—near the Mexican border. He’d given the book another chance. Bit by bit, memory by memory, Proust’s life began to take on shape and structure. And then he thought he understood. Maybe the priest was right: books really were doorways to other worlds.
The worker had stopped descending the dome and was making his way along another lower horizontal catwalk, only thirty-odd feet now above the surface of the escarpment. Water Buffalo settled himself carefully in the gully, spreading his legs wide, digging his toes into the stony soil. He placed the rifle’s bipod against a small ledge of rock at the gully’s edge, made sure it was firm. One hand slid forward to grip the rifle’s forearm, while the other snicked off the safety and settled around the trigger guard. He took a breath, then another.
The worker unclipped his tether, moved around the metal skin of the vertex to the next window. Water Buffalo timed his shot between heartbeats, pulling the trigger just as the man was reaching forward to reclip the tether to the catwalk.
The man jerked his head upward as if someone had called his name. Through the scope, Water Buffalo watched the red plume blossom against the white cloth. Automatically, he ran the bolt, still sighted in, ready for a second shot. But it was unnecessary: the slug had mushroomed inside the body as intended, taking out most of the vital plumbing. The man was already sliding, headfirst, down the dark face of the dome.